Burn
by Lioness Black
Summary: Mark is in an accident. He's alive, but he's not the same.
1. Chapter One

Title: Burn  
Author: Lioness Black  
Pairing: Mark/Roger  
Rating: PG13  
Genre: Drama  
Summary: Mark is in an accident. He's alive, but he's not the same.  
Spoilers: Post-Rent  
Warnings: Possibly disturbing images? Some swearing?  
Disclaimer: Not mine, just good fun.

* * *

It all started with an accident. 

I wasn't there, I was no where near where it happened, I had no idea _Mark_ was anywhere near it when it happened, let alone right in the middle of it.

There was an electrical fire in an apartment building uptown. I heard about it on the radio, but I didn't think anything of it. I was just waiting for the news to be over the music to come back on. I had been attacking the dishes, since they had been piled up there for more than a month and a family of mice had taken home in it... it was time to wash the dishes.

I didn't answer the phone, I let the machine get it.

"...is this the home of Mark Cohen?"

I looked over, like someone was actually standing there to look at.

"This is the phone number we have for Mark Cohen."

I looked back to the dishes, it was for Mark.

"Mr. Cohen was involved in a fire, he's at the Cornell Medical Center on East 68th street."

They didn't say anything else.

I abandoned the dishes. I almost forgot to put on shoes.

---

I had no idea what Mark had been doing at that apartment building. After convincing a nurse that I was Mark's brother, or maybe she just felt sorry for me, I stood in the burn unit and stared.

I wasn't allowed in, I could only see him through glass at this point. It didn't even look like him. He had bandages over half his face, and all up his arms, and his hands. His glasses were nowhere to be seen.

It didn't look like him, but I would know Mark anywhere.

I pressed my nose against the glass and stared. I couldn't look away.

I didn't even notice that I was crying until the glass fogged over.

---

A few days later, Mark was in normal room, one I could go into. He was sleeping the first time I went, and he slept the whole time I was there. The second time I went, he was awake.

His bed was in the upright sitting position, and a table was in front of him. He was sipping water out of a glass, leaning forward to suck the water from a straw. His hands were still bandaged.

He looked in my direction when I entered with the eye that wasn't covered by bandages. He pulled away from the straw. "Roger."

Mark's eyesight wasn't so terrible he couldn't recognize someone without his glasses.

"Hey, Mark," I said. I walked into the room. "I... the last time I came, you were asleep."

"You just missed my mom," he said.

"That's a relief."

He smiled, but didn't laugh. He leaned back against the pillows. He turned his head. "Sit or something. You're kind of... wobbling."

I laughed and pulled up a chair.

We were quiet for a few moments. I didn't know what to say. How happy I was that he was alive, what the hell was he doing at that building, how much I loved him in every way you could possibly love someone. Instead of saying it all at once, I didn't say anything.

"They haven't let me look in a mirror," Mark said. "You're my best friend, Roger, tell me. How bad does it look?"

The question startled me. I wasn't expecting that. "Um, well, Mark, it's all under bandages."

"Then take them off!" Mark's eye begged with me.

"I don't think I should."

"Then call someone who will. Roger, please. I need to know what it looks like. I have to know. I know you'll be honest with me. I need to see my face, I've seen my arms and hands when they change the bandages and they look terrible. I need to know, I know you'll tell me the truth."

"Does it matter how you look? You're alive! You survived a fire for god's sake! Can't you just be happy with that? _I'm _happy with that. Mark, I'm so happy that you're alive, you have no idea." I was pleading with him, too.

"_What goddamn use is being alive if I look like a fucking monster!?_"

Mark had yelled at me, pushed me around, punched me, even, but I had never heard him sound so hateful.

I stared at him like I stared when he was unconscious in the burn unit. Like I could barely recognize him, and I only knew which one was him because he was _Mark_ and I always knew Mark.

My voice shook. "I'll get a nurse or something."

I had to beg and plead, but I got a doctor who would remove Mark's bandages so I could see, and so he could see. Mark studied my face as the doctor pulled back the bandages.

"Don't expect him to not be shocked," the doctor said to Mark. "It's not that bad, but he's going to be shocked, even still, okay?"

The doctor was right, I was shocked. The entire left side of Mark's face was shiny red, all of the folds and creases, smile lines, they were all gone. The skin had melted and reformed into something new and featureless. A good portion of Mark's hair was gone, and his eyebrow was gone, but he had a white gauze patch still over his eye.

"Can you take off the patch?" I asked.

"It can't be exposed to direct light for some time, in hopes of saving some of Mark's vision," the doctor explained.

"Well?" Mark said, looking to me. "Shock's over, what do you think?"

"It's different," I said weakly. "Mark... I don't know what I'm supposed to tell you. You don't look the same."

"The burn is still healing," said the doctor. "This isn't the final product, but, no, Mark, you're not going to look the same."

"Can I see?" Mark asked. "Can you get me a mirror so I can see?"

The doctor pulled a small hand mirror from his pocket. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure! I want to see!"

He held it up in front of Mark's face, and Mark stared for a long time.

"Get out," he whispered. "Both of you. Out."

"Mark," I said. "Please-"

"OUT!" Mark shouted.

I turned, and I left.

I didn't know what else to do.


	2. Chapter Two

Title: Burn  
Author: Lioness Black  
Pairing: Mark/Roger  
Rating: PG13  
Genre: Drama  
Summary: Mark is in an accident. He's alive, but he's not the same.  
Warnings: Disturbing images? Drug use.

* * *

Mark insisted on coming home by himself. He didn't want me or anyone to meet him at the hospital, he didn't want any kind of welcome home. He said his legs works fine, he didn't need help walking. 

I had to admit, it hurt.

Mark had been in the hospital for months. He'd undergone skin graft surgery for his face and for his left arm. His right arm wasn't as badly burned.

"Hey," I said when he finally arrived home. He was wearing the clothes I had brought him the day before. He looked at me. His left eye was still covered with a patch, a black plastic one, but he wore glasses over it. He had been given new glasses months ago, they were wire-rims. I didn't think they suited him, he looked strange, but I couldn't dare mention that to him. He would take it the wrong way.

"Hi," Mark said. He went into his room and closed the door.

Mark was scary.

It wasn't the burns. The burns had healed, though the doctor had told me that the skin was still trying to fix itself and may look different over the next few months, though he would never look "normal". Mark's skin looked wrinkled, yet stretched. In some places, it looked thicker than it used to, in others, it looked thin, like you might not be able to touch without breaking it. His hair hadn't grown back, neither had his eyebrow. They probably never would. Mark had taken to shaving off the remainder of his hair.

His right hand, though looking wrinkled and scarred, like both of his arms, was perfectly workable. His grip wasn't as strong as it used to be, but he could use his hand for all intensive purposes. His left hand was another story. The last three fingers had been so damaged that they had to be removed at the second joint. His index finger and thumb had even less of a grip, and neither one had a nail. Unless it was absolutely necessary, Mark hid his left hand.

None of that was why Mark was scary to me.

Mark either spoke in a mumble, or he shouted. He didn't speak unless spoken to. He never looked me in the eye, but he stared at me when I wasn't looking. This Mark was capable of hating me so much, hating me because I was good looking, that he would kill me in my sleep.

This wasn't the Mark I knew.

But, goddammit, I still loved him.

That was how things went for the next few months until we were looking at a year anniversary of the fire.

Mark spent his days in his room. I worked, I came home, Mark and I spoke short things back and forth to each other. He shouted at me when I said things he didn't like. I shouted back when he said things _I _didn't like.

The only thing Mark would spark up conversation about was killing himself.

That was usually when I shouted.

On the year anniversary of the fire, Mark and I sat up on the roof. I lit up a joint, took a hit, and handed it to Mark.

He took it from me.

"Sunset's nice," I said.

Mark didn't say anything, he was holding in the smoke.

"Do you believe in God?" I asked. Then I laughed. "No, you don't. If you ever did, you don't anymore, do you?"

Mark exhaled and handed me the joint. "I believe in God. I always have."

I looked over at him. He was wearing a hooded sweater. It was late May, and even though it the air was cool in the evenings, it was still too warm for long sleeves. I could see the bulge of his left hand in the front pocket. He wore a knitted cap on his head. Maureen had knitted it for him.

"You think a nice sunset like this could be a sign of hope?" I asked. I sucked off the joint. I held my breath and then exhaled. "God could be saying something to someone?"

"Sure," Mark replied.

"You think maybe it's you?"

"There's eight million people in this city seeing this exact same sunset. I'm supposed to think that out of all of them, I'm the one the sign is for? I don't think so."

I handed over the joint. This was the longest conversation we had spoken in a year.

"Maybe it's for a lot of people," I said. I didn't even believe in God.

"The only sign God's ever given me was fire," Mark said. "And it was a sign that he didn't care, he can't protect me, and everything I've ever done was wrong. And I got my reward for it. Just like you got yours."

"I don't think HIV is exactly punishment from God," I said.

"That's what they say in churches. AIDS is God's revenge on the queers. Even if you don't have it, you can't enjoy sex because you're afraid of it."

"I'm not queer, though," I said, even though if Mark would get out of his hole of vain self pity, and see that I loved him, that would change. Obviously, I had to be with him to be perfectly queer. "And I don't take stock on what churches say."

"Queer or not, you were a drug addict. That has to be bad in itself. You cheated on April constantly. I covered for you, too."

"Thanks for bringing that up. But if... what happened hadn't happened... we wouldn't have gotten as close as we are," I said, though _as we were _might have been more appropriate. "I wouldn't have met Mimi. That was a good year and a half, considering. I've had the chance to be in love with more people because of it."

"But not _one_," Mark insisted. He snatched the joint away from me.

"Not yet," I said.

"I don't believe God loves anyone," Mark said. "Not you, or me, or anyone. And if that sunset is hope, then it's just so people don't throw themselves off of rooftops."

"If he's telling them that, he has to be loving something."

Mark laughed, bitter and sad. "Only his own vanity."


	3. Chapter Three

Title: Burn  
Author: Lioness Black  
Pairing: Mark/Roger  
Rating: PG13  
Spoilers: Post-Rent  
Notes: This story is meant to be told in small moments. It was written this way on purpose, under word restrictions. I definitely appreciate the honest reviews, so thank you and happy reading.  
Warnings: Possible disturbing images, self injury, swearing.

* * *

Mark's depression was making me depressed. I stole pills out of his Prozac bottle. 

As long as his parents kept paying for his prescriptions, who cared? I don't think Mark even noticed.

Mark was making food one day. He was fixing himself a sandwich, I think. Mark didn't like me looking at him for too long, especially during anything that required use of his left hand. He hated being offered help.

I was walking from the shower to my room. I had a towel wrapped around my waist. I didn't think anything of it.

"I hate you."

I turned and looked at Mark. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I hate the way you do that."

"Do what? What am I doing?"

"How you walk around here like that, showing yourself off like that. Like I can't see you or something. How do you think it feels to live with someone who looks perfect like you do?" Mark asked.

"What do you want me to do? Disfigure myself? So I can mope around and not work like you do? I don't know if you've noticed, but I've been supporting both of us here. And I do it because you're my friend, and I don't give a shit what you look like, I love you. So get off my back about something I can't change. I look how I look."

I went into my room and didn't wait for the nasty reply.

I couldn't believe that I told him I loved him. I didn't mean it the way he might have taken it. Besides, give him a few minutes and he'd remember I had done the same thing not long ago.

Mark didn't apologize, but he didn't snipe at me for a week.

A year ago, Mark would have wandered around the loft naked and not thought anything about it. Now, even coming out of the shower, he was completely dressed. I couldn't understand it. The places he was scarred, I could see, dressed or not. His chest, stomach, back, and legs, all of that was fine. The burns he received there were minimal, and healed over in a few short weeks.

He didn't like being seen. Mark wanted to hide, even from me. I was used to the scars. I wasn't shocked by his missing fingers. I wasn't startled by the eye patch, that even after a year, Mark was careful to not let me see underneath.

Several weeks later, I came home from work early. I never came home early, so I wasn't surprised to see Mark's bedroom door open and the bathroom door pushed mostly closed. I could see a sliver of yellow light from the crack.

I moved forward to knock on the door, but I saw first, and I watched. Mark was naked. He was only wearing the eye patch. Normally, I would have watched that, but I was stuck by what he was doing.

Mark was sitting on the toilet, the lid down, cutting into the inside of his thigh with a razor. His legs were covered with scars. He'd been out of the hospital for several months, is that how long he'd been doing that?

"Mark."

He looked up, his eye wide. "What are you doing here?" He didn't sound angry, he sounded scared.

"What are you doing?" I asked. I pushed the door open further.

"Nothing," Mark said. "Go away."

"It's not nothing. Put... put that down."

"It's none of your fucking business, Roger. Get _out._" Mark stood up, still holding the razor. His left hand slid behind his back. He was naked, he was bleeding, and he hid his _hand_ of all things.

"I'm not getting out. Why are you-"

"I'm serious, _leave_."

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.

"A few months, what does it matter? The rest of me is scarred, as least now I match," Mark snapped.

"You're doing this to yourself. Jesus, Mark, put it down!"

Mark held up the razor. "It doesn't matter. You're going to be the last person to see me naked."

I grabbed him around the wrist. It was the first time I had ever touched his scars for more than a brush as he handed me something. I squeezed his wrist tight, trying to get him the drop the razor, but his grip was better than I gave him credit for. He fought against me, even pushing against me with his left hand, I hadn't been touched by that hand in more than a year, but I was still stronger.

I don't know how it happened, but the razor slipped and cut along my cheek. I let go of Mark, pushing him back. The razor fell the floor.

"Roger," he said. "Roger, I didn't mean to..."

"Get out." It was my turn to say it. "Get away."

Mark backed away from me, his eye still wide. "I'm sorry," he mumbled and fled to his room.

I cleaned the cut, it was pretty mild. I put a bandage over it. I looked kind of tough, I thought.

I waited until I wasn't anxious and twitchy, and then I knocked on Mark's door. "Mark?"

"Go away."

Hearing something besides silence was a good sign. I pushed the door open. He hadn't locked it, another good sign. "Mark, I'm not mad."

Mark was lying on his bed, dressed. He sat up. "I didn't mean to do that. I just wanted you to leave me alone."

"I've been leaving you alone for a year and a half," I said. "I think I've been pretty damn patient, but... I can't do it anymore. You've got to give me something, Mark. You can't keep treating me like this."

"I know."

"Please. Try to open up a little? Try to... I'll do what you want me to do, but I won't leave you alone. I know this is hard, but I don't think you look as bad as you've convinced yourself you look."

"People stare at me when I walk down the street," Mark said, not looking at me. "Mothers pull their kids away from me. Like... because I look like this... the kids point at me anyway. That's why I stopped leaving."

"I don't stare at you."

"You do, but not like them."


	4. Chapter Four

Title: Burn  
Author: Lioness Black  
Pairing: Mark/Roger  
Rating: PG13  
Warnings: Possibly disturbing images? Swearing.  
Disclaimer: Not mine, just good fun.

* * *

Things had gotten better. 

Mark had more to say to me than "yes", "no", and "go away".

He even started making jokes. They were bleak, but they were jokes.

It hadn't been uncommon for Mark to have nightmares about the fire. The walls were like paper, it didn't have to be much louder than a whimper for me to hear, but I knew that Mark's door was always locked, so even if he had wanted me in the past, I couldn't have gone and comforted him. He wouldn't have accepted it anyway.

The new Mark didn't accept comfort. He didn't accept anything he thought might be pity.

Even when things were getting better, this still was not the Mark from before the fire.

"Why do you even still like me?" Mark asked. We were sitting on the roof, drinking beer. "I've been nothing but an asshole to you for a year and a half."

I shrugged. "You're my best friend. You might be an asshole, but you're still the same guy."

Mark smiled. That was one thing. Mark's smile never changed. His lips had gone untouched by the flames, and his smile was always lopsided to the right. He had the exact same smile.

"The new and disgusting version," Mark said with a laugh.

"What do you think of the sunset?" I asked, changing the subject. I didn't think Mark was disgusting.

"It's nice," he replied. "I like sunsets better than sunrises. That means I made it through another day."

I smiled. "I'm glad you made it through another one, too."

"I can barely get up in the morning," Mark said. "It's not just a vanity thing. This changed the way everyone looks at me. I don't know if I make it through another day of the staring and whispers and kids who don't know any better. It's not like I can hide it, everyone can see that I've got stubs for fingers and burns on my face. I'm like the fucking phantom of the opera. I should start wearing one of those masks."

"I've got the scar you gave me," I put out there, pointing to the thin silver line on my cheek.

Mark laughed. "That doesn't count! It's tiny and it's hot on you!"

I grinned.

---

It was the scream that woke me up. I got out of bed and rushed to Mark's room. The door was unlocked. I sat on the bed and shook Mark awake from high nightmare.

"Roger! Roger, oh god." Mark sat up and wrapped his arms around me, laying his head against my chest. "Sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay," I said, rubbing his back. "It was just a dream."

"I'm sorry I woke you up."

"I don't mind."

"I want to stop dreaming about the fire," Mark said. "I don't want to think about it, and it's always there."

I rubbed his back until his breathing was normal. I could only see the outline of Mark's form from the dim light of the street lamps outside. "Let me turn on a light."

"No! Wait." Mark pulled away from me.

"What?" I asked, startled.

"Let me get on the patch, first." There was a pause and then Mark flipped on the lamp.

"Why are you so scared of me seeing what's under there?" I asked.

"It's ugly," he mumbled. "I can't see out of it anyway, so it doesn't matter."

I tilted my head to one side. "I don't think you're ugly, Mark. I think... I've always thought you were beautiful."

Mark blushed and smiled, more to himself than anything. He took a deep breath. "Don't freak out, okay? I don't think I could stand it if you freaked out."

"I won't," I promised.

He pulled away the eye patch. The skin around his eye was all puffy and it made his eye look smaller than the other. The eye itself was looking to the far left.

"It's always like that. It doesn't really move," Mark said, as though he needed some kind of excuse. Like surviving a fire wasn't good enough.

"I was expecting worse the way you hid it," I said. "I'm underwhelmed."

Mark laughed. "I love you, Roger."

"I love you, too."

"I... that day. The day of the fire, did you ever wonder what I was doing there?"

Every single day. "Oh, sometimes."

"It's embarrassing, that's why I couldn't tell you, or anyone. I was seeing a hooker. An escort, really. It was... a male escort." Mark looked down, his cheeks growing red.. "He looked a lot like you."

"Mark, I... why didn't you tell me?" I asked. I felt like a weight had been taken off of me.

"When I kept being an asshole, and you stayed around, and the way you looked at me... the way you still looked at me, even when I looked like this... I started to realize that you... might. Feel the same way I did. And I hated myself more. If I hadn't been a chicken shit, we could have been together and I wouldn't be horrific. I wouldn't be ugly, and disfigured and I could get my hand around my dick enough to even jerk off and not take two hours."

"If you needed help jerking off, you should have just asked. I don't think you're ugly or horrific or any of those things. I think you're beautiful."

Mark laughed, more in disbelief than humor. "How _can _you? How is that even possible?"

"Maybe... because I've loved you for years?" I suggested. "Mimi knew."

Mark's eye grew wide. His left eye remained unaffected. "That long?"

"I'm the one who's been a chicken shit," I replied.

"Would... would you want to have sex with me?" Mark blushed again, but he didn't look like he regretted asking it.

"Would you want to have sex with _me_?" I asked. "Having sex with me could be fatal."

"It'd be worth it. I'm willing to take the risk. I'm just... Roger, I'm _not _attractive. I was a good looking guy, but now I'm just-"

I didn't let him finish. I kissed him and I couldn't stop. He wrapped his arms around my neck and pulled me closer.

I said it one more time, this time my lips still touching his. "I think you're beautiful."


End file.
